


Adho Mukha Śvānāsana

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Auror Harry, Awkward Sexual Tension, Flirting, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Unspeakable Draco, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 17:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: A training session goeshorribly wrongdifferently than Harry thought it would.





	Adho Mukha Śvānāsana

**Author's Note:**

> For darkdarkdark's prompt of "yoga, lavender-vanilla candles, and awkward sexual tension." :D
> 
> Unbetaed, please excuse any mistakes.

The chimes are low, melodic. They’re supposed to be soothing, Harry thinks, like the lavender-vanilla candles Malfoy insists on burning. But they’re not. Nothing is, not over the sound of Malfoy’s calm, low voice hovering around Harry, trying to coax him into something approaching a meditative state — which is difficult to achieve when all of his focus is going into not getting an erection the size of the Eiffel Tower. 

“Potter.” Malfoy sighs. Harry watches his bare toes curl thoughtfully against the blue mat for a moment. Who on earth other than Malfoy has thoughtful _toe movements_? Merlin, he’s annoying. “I know you’re more flexible than this,” Malfoy says. “I’ve seen you do ungodly back bends to dodge curse fire in the field.” His feet disappear from Harry’s view, and a second later, Harry flinches when Malfoy’s hands land on his hips. “What’s holding you back?”

“I’m— not—” Harry drags in some air as Malfoy adjusts his stance, tugs his hips back and up. Higher. “—very… _into_ yoga, all right?”

“Oh, for goodness' sake.” There, that’s helpful: the sound of Malfoy’s exasperation. “This isn’t _yoga,_ per se. We’re merely utilising some of the techniques to better the flow of your magical energy. Not a single one of the other Aurors training with me has complained, and if you think you’re too accomplished to need my—” 

“No, _Jesus_.” Harry huffs. “I’m just—” He squirms away from Malfoy’s hands. They take hold of him again immediately, stubbornly, straightening him and then running down, flat, against the backs of Harry’s tensed thighs. Corrective. And back up, an almost-clinical touch as they skim over Harry’s arse to pinch his hips again. Harry swallows. His voice comes out strangled, his excuse lame. “—uncomfortable.”

Stupid Kingsley. Stupid new policies of training with Unspeakables. Stupid fucking Draco Malfoy, wearing stupid, low-slung black joggers and a clinging white tank-top instead of those boring grey robes that cover the stupid, slender curves of his biceps and the stupidly elegant jut of his shoulder blades. Those robes swim around him, make him look skinny. Harry much prefers them.

“Well, don't be. Get out of your head about it.” Malfoy smacks his arse lightly, as though it’s Saturday and they’ve just finished a round of pickup Quidditch on the Ministry pitch. _Good game, Potter._ It brings to mind the way he looks in his Quidditch leathers. Malfoy says, "Just… try to feel it in your body."

And, well, Harry's been trying _not_ to, but that does it. Yep, there it comes. A rise of steel in his thin track bottoms. Shit. Harry digs his fingers into the mat.

“I don’t need to remind you how fiercely protective I am of my record, do I?” Malfoy says when he doesn’t respond. “I’m not going to let _you_ be the downfall of it. No, hands flat. Stomach too, you’re bowing the small of your back too much.”

And then Malfoy slips his hand from Harry’s hip to his belly — still standing behind him, practically _mounting_ him. Harry can feel Malfoy's long, lean thighs against the backs of his, the outline of Malfoy's soft prick against the cleft of his arse. Malfoy pushes against his stomach, straightening Harry’s spine, and Harry’s breath catches as his erection is brushed with a bony wrist.

They both still.

“Um.” Malfoy’s voice takes on a breathy quality. “_Bālāsana_, I think.” He clears his throat, unmoving. There’s a hard twitch against Harry’s backside. It wrenches a twinge of sensation out of Harry’s cock, and he swallows again — this time to hold his whimper in. Belatedly, Malfoy says, “Come down into child’s pose, please?”

Neither of them move for another moment. Then Malfoy’s wrist twists, a firm, verifying push. His hips rotate. Just a little.

Just enough.

Harry’s whimper tries to break free again. He takes another great gulp of lavender-vanilla scented air as Malfoy removes his hand and pulls off. Hastily, Harry comes down into child’s pose, stretching his arms out. Putting his face to the mat. His dick throbs, caught between his belly and the press of his thighs. He listens to Malfoy move away, and the volume of the chimes increases. 

“We’ll— cool down, for five,” Malfoy says, sounding unsteady. “Then I think we can stop for the day.” 

Sessions go for an hour.

Harry doesn’t think he’s been in the room for more than twelve minutes.

Mortified, he tries to regulate his breathing. Listens to the sound of the chimes. By the time Malfoy spells them off, Harry’s erection is — mostly — under control. His imagination, however…

"Alright, you can get up," Malfoy says, sounding like himself once more. As though he hasn't just realised Harry's best-kept secret — something Harry himself had convinced himself wasn't really true until this very morning. Malfoy makes a disgruntled sound. "Any time, now, Potter."

Harry rises to his knees and takes a deep, fortifying breath. Fine, he wants Malfoy; that doesn't mean he has to let Malfoy lord it over him. Defiantly, Harry lifts his gaze. Sitting on the mat at the head of the room, legs crossed, Malfoy is watching him, grey eyes inscrutable and narrow and, and barely even _grey,_ his pupils blown wide and black. His throat is a blotchy pink. 

"I know what your problem is," Malfoy says abruptly. 

Harry scoffs, cheeks burning. "You're a shit Unspeakable?"

Malfoy hooks one eyebrow up. "Don't be so defensive, Potter," he drawls. "I'm not accusing you of having… performance issues." His mouth quirks. "I'd _never._"

They haven't got into a duel in years — at least one that wasn't planned beforehand — but Harry glances around for his wand at that, itching to throw a hex. Just a little one. _Rictusempra_, or… Or _Voluptumsempra_, yes. Teach Malfoy a lesson. Ruffle his feathers, too. Maybe make him cry out a bit. Or a lot.

Malfoy hops up. Gritting his teeth, Harry does too — watching Malfoy's languid stretch. It displays the soft, white-blond curls under his arms and lifts the hem of his shirt to bare a strip of pale skin. His nipples are tight through the cotton of his tank. Peaked. Harry looks away, refusing to visit Paris twice in one morning, and Malfoy drops his arms with a low, quiet chuckle.

"Some people," he murmurs, "are more productive in a less… structured environment."

Harry blinks. Clears his throat to respond. Malfoy doesn't give him a chance to — drifting nearer.

"I can open you up if you let me, Potter. Or demonstrate how it's done, let you do the, ah, _opening_. Whichever you prefer." He says it with a tilt of his head, the last word rising questioningly. His eyes flick to the observation mirror meaningfully. The room is soundproof, or supposed to be, but Harry supposes it's possible someone's behind the mirror, watching. There's really no way to know. It occurs to Harry sluggishly that Malfoy hasn't done anything to give either of them away. 

Fucking hell. _Either of them._

Not quite trusting his own voice, Harry says, "You give private sessions, is that what you're saying?"

"Very," Malfoy all but purrs, a satisfied glint to his eye. "And my flat is fully equipped with… Well, anything we might need to get through what's holding you back."

"I—" Harry licks his lips. Blinking. "Are you serious?" he asks. Because it's Malfoy. It's _him_ and Malfoy.

Malfoy smirks. "I'll unward my flat for you," he says. He lifts a hand towel, drags it between his fingertips. "What time can you get off today?" 

Stupid cock, so desperate to turn into Paris' main attraction. 

Harry nods, stiltedly. "I'll be there by six."

"That wasn't precisely what I asked, but I suppose it works," Malfoy says. And then he— he _smiles,_ in that way that leaves Harry wrecked every time he sees it. Open, impish. Beautiful. The real secret Harry's been keeping. 

"Practice your downward dog, Malfoy," Harry says gruffly, heading for the door before he gives in and grabs him. "And I'll see you tonight."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely. 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](bixgirl1.tumblr.com) now, too! *waves*


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